


Hockey, Peace, and Latke Grease

by ricekrispyjoints



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Attempted Bribery, Based on True Stories, Candles, Canon Jewish Character, Complete, Cooking, Derek "Nursey" Nurse is Unchill, Gen, Hanukkah, Inspired by Music, Instagram, Jewish Holidays, Justin "Ransom" Oluransi is a Delicate Coral Reef, Latkes, Nostalgia, Not really but...., Other Additional Tags to Be Added, S'vivon | Dreidel, Singing, Team as Family, Texting, YA FAVES ARE JEWISH, among other things, anyway, applesauce versus sourcream, bros being bros, bros can cuddle ok, but please don't let that stop you from shipping whoever u want in this fic, choose your fighter, ford asks the real questions, hanukkat, hockey bros, holster is surrounded by well-meaning goyim, homework procrastination, i LOVE that kent's cat already has a tag, i forgot how bad some of the puns are in that episode..., i won't be explicitly writing any relationships, in which the author profits off a lack of canon info about ollie and wicks, it was for the cat pics, jack exits hockey robot mode to enter the D R E I D E L Z O N E, jewish author, lardo might have magic powers, nursey and dex both need to chill, ollie's hidden talent REVEALED, one ficlet per night, procrastination, rugrats hanukkah special, save chowder 2k16, that's also a pre-established tag thank you for my life, they are studying, this fandom knows what's up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricekrispyjoints/pseuds/ricekrispyjoints
Summary: Eight crazy nights of Hanukkah, Haus-style.Featuring Holster initiating the young'uns into the world of greasy goodness, mild fire hazards, and friendships for life.(Set in Rans/Holster/Lardo's senior year.)





	1. Night One

**Author's Note:**

> CHAG HANUKKAH SAMEACH !!!  
> i literally just made latkes for 8 wonderful goyische friends, we played dreidel and i taught them random yiddish words. good times :)))
> 
> anyways, some of these are based on real things that have happened to me, some are based on my imagination, some are on tumblr posts. check the chapter notes for more on each scenario.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a True Story, nearly verbatim, of when I was living with a very Catholic host family and tried to explain to them how we celebrate Hanukkah... and gosh, he tried so hard, my host-dad.   
> he a little confused, but he got the right spirit.jpg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by kirani :)

“Man, I love Hannukah,” Holster sighs, taking in a deep breath as he smells the air.

He had provided the recipe, but Holster himself is a disaster in the kitchen, so he’s bribed Bitty into making some sufganiyot to celebrate the holiday this evening.

Holster kind of prefers when Hanukkah starts on a Friday or Saturday night, because then there’s more room to stay up late at a big communal gathering, but this year it’s Sunday, so he’s got class at nine am the next day.

(Not that that will stop him from staying up late; it just means that Monday morning will suck moderately more than usual.)

The scent of frying dough is good, though. It probably has restorative properties.

Lured in by the smell, various members of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team have wandered in, wondering what that delicious, sweet smell could be.

At this point, they are all quite used to the scent of pie, but the enormous amount of grease in the air is far from the norm.

This time, Tango wanders in.

“What’cha making, Bitty?” he asks, his usual curious energy tempered by fatigue.

Must be end of term cramming, though it’s a little early still to worry about that. Maybe that’s just how Tango always looks, Holster supposes.

“It’s Hanukkah, my dude,” Holster hums happily.

But unlike the rest of the teammates who have wandered in, Tango doesn’t go “oh, right” or “cool”.

Instead, he constructs an incredibly articulate response: “Huh?”

“Hanukkah?” Holster tries again. “Festival of lights? Miracle of oil?”

He gets a blank look in reply.

Holster sighs. “It’s a Jewish holiday, Tango.”

“Oh, neat,” Tango says. “What are you celebrating? Is this like Jewish Christmas?”

Holster only barely restrains himself. _Be nice to sweet, naïve Tango,_ he reminds himself.

“No, it is absolutely not Jewish Christmas. Just happens to fall in the same-ish time of year. Basically, some people tried to kill us, we lived, and now we celebrate—pretty standard for a Jewish holiday.”

“And the uh, alarming amounts of oil?” Tango asks innocently.

“Well, the main attraction, if you will, of Hanukkah is the lighting of the candles. See, after the fighting was done, we had to keep the Eternal Flame lit. Except there was only enough oil for one night. But by a divine miracle, the oil lasted for eight nights! So, we celebrate each night by lighting a candle, one for each of the eight nights, and we also eat fried foods, like what Bitty’s making.”

“That’s really cool. Sounds pretty, too.”

“Yeah, I like it. It’s one of my favorite holidays, not just because of the food, but because even less religious Jewish people tend to celebrate it, and it makes me feel like the Jewish community is just a little bigger, you know?”

“Holster usually does a little latke party,” Bitty chimes in. “It might be the only thing he knows how to cook properly.”

“Hang on a second, I have an idea,” Tango says, and he dashes out of the room.

Holster and Bitty exchanged confused looks, but this _is_ Tango, so really, he could be up to anything.

After a few minutes, they hear some talking in the living room, a bit of rummaging, and then finally, Tango returns to the kitchen.

In his arms, he’s cradling what might be every candle in the Haus, as well as a lighter.

He sets them all down on the kitchen table, carefully spacing them apart in a neat little line.

Holster watches on in amusement as Tango then begins lighting each candle, brow furrowed and tongue sticking out in concentration.

When he’s done, he takes a step back. “Ta-da! Happy Hannukah, Holster.”

Holster can’t help it.

He bursts out laughing.

“Thank you, my man,” he says.

Bitty is giggling in the background.

Tango _absolutely_ missed the point, and this isn’t remotely how Hanukkah is celebrated.

But the boy tried, and it was sweet, and Holster thinks that it perfectly captures the spirit.

Holster gets up and hugs Tango. “That’s not exactly how we do it, but I really appreciate it.”

“Aww, I didn’t do it right?” Tango pouts.

“Well no, but you literally just learned about Hanukkah like five minutes ago. For a goy, it’s a good attempt.”

“What’s a goy?” Tango asks.

“Shouldn’t have used Yiddish,” Holster facepalms.

Bitty’s peals of laughter ring throughout the Haus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy first night !


	2. Night Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A riff on one of my favorite Hanukkah-related jokes :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls accept this humble offering... i have latke-induced tendinitis (yes,, sadly, that's a real thing)
> 
> Also, most of the spellings Holster cites are[ here ](http://joemaller.com/601/sixteen-ways-to-spell-hanukkah/) !

Monday evening is a quiet affair in the Haus. Everyone’s tired from, well, _Mondays_ , and practice was tough as usual.

They’re chilling in the living room, Holster and Ransom sharing the hideous green couch.

Holster’s on the right, and Ransom’s on the left, and they’ve got their feet pointed towards the middle, wedged one leg in between the other’s so they can fit, despite being enormous hockey players.

Holster’s got his glasses on, reading some boring policy article, and Ransom has his chin in his hand as he leafs through some sort of biochemistry textbook.

There’s a highlighter in his other hand, uncapped, but Ransom hasn’t moved to use it in several minutes.

“Hey, Holtzy,” Ransom says, breaking the silence.

“What’s up Ransy-poo,” Holster teases.

“I was just thinking, I’ve seen Hanukkah spelled like, fourteen different ways. Which one is the right one?”

Holster snorts. “Why are you thinking about spelling variations of Hanukkah instead of… whatever that book is teaching you?”

“Because this book isn’t teaching me anything,” Ransom groans. “Let me have my wandering thoughts-- my brain is fried.”

“That’s very appropriate for Hanukkah season, you know.”

“Bro, are you gonna go zombie on me? Eat my brain because it’s fried and it’s Hanukkah?”

“Bro, I would never eat your brain. Even if I was a zombie, I would never let myself do you dirty like that.”

“Thanks, Bro. Had me worried for a sec, there.”

“Got your back, Rans,” Holster assures him.

He returns his attention to his article, and scribbles a note in the margin.

“Bro, you didn’t answer my question though,” Ransom says after a moment.

“Oh, shit, you’re right.”

“So which is the proper spelling?”

“Well, the proper spelling is with a different alphabet,” Holster says. “It’s why people kind of do whatever they want. I mean, there’s probably two spellings that are the most accepted, at least here in America, but Jack told me it looks totally different in French, so…”

“How many different spellings do you know?” Ransom asks.

“Hmm,” Holster thinks. He pulls out a random notebook from his backpack that’s leaned against the couch, and begins a list:

  * Hanukkah
  * Chanukah
  * Hanukah
  * Hannukah
  * Chanuka
  * Chanukkah
  * Hanuka
  * Channukah
  * Hannuka
  * Hannukkah
  * Channuka
  * Xanuka
  * Hannukka
  * Channukkah
  * Channukka
  * Hanoucca (French, I think?)



“I came up with sixteen,” he says, tossing the list to Ransom’s side of the couch. “But there might be more.”

“Damn,” Ransom says as he takes in the list. “Oh man, I want to spreadsheet this.”

“Maybe later, when your homework is done,” Holster chides, raising an eyebrow in the gentlest judgement.

“You’re no fun,” Ransom complains.

“I am excellent fun,” Holster objects, “but I also care about you and your academic success. No spreadsheets until you finish your chapter, young man.”

Ransom laughs at Holster trying to be parental and stern. “Yes, sir,” he teases, saluting.

“Finally, the respect I deserve.”

“I take it back.”

“No take-backsies!” Holster whines.

“Ah, there we go. Back to our regularly scheduled Adam.”

“You love me in all my forms, bro.”

“You know I do bro,” Ransom agrees.

“Thanks bro. Now finish your reading.”

“ _Bro!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tomorrow is latke time !! and it's uh,,, a lot longer than these first 2 chapters


	3. Night Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to all the latke lovers in the room...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it couldn't possibly be a Hanukkah fic without latkes. Which is maybe how this chapter ended up being like, 3 times longer than the first two... heh  
> ANYWAY pls enjoy

Jack is back from his roadie (the Falcs won two of three, so a good trip) the afternoon before the third night, and no one has 8am class on Wednesdays, so everyone agrees that Tuesday night is the best night for the big latke party.

As usual, Holster takes charge of the latkes—Bitty was right, it really is the only thing he can cook well on his own—but he does enlist the help of his underclassmen for prep work.

The sheer amount of potatoes sitting around in the kitchen is _alarming_ , but then again, they are a collegiate hockey team. 

Tango scrubs potatoes and then passes them to Dex and Whiskey who grate them.

Chowder is cutting onions, because he is somehow immune to their evil eye-watering powers.

Nursey take the potatoes that Dex and Chowder have shredded to squeeze out the extra water, before passing it on to Holster and Bitty at the stove.

This year, Bitty had asked to help, because he wants to learn to make them for Jack, the sap, so Holster has agreed to take him under his wing.

“Come, my goyische paduan,” Holster says, “and I will teach you the ways of the latke.”

He makes a sweeping gesture at the other ingredients on the countertop.

“So, we got our potatoes, we got our onions. We’re gonna use two eggs per batch, a scoop of flour---”

“A ‘scoop’?” Bitty asks, arching an incredulous eyebrow. “How big a scoop we talking here?”

Bitty holds up the set of measuring cups. “These could all ostensibly be scoops, but they are very different sizes, Mister Birkholtz.”

“The little one,” Holster says confidently. “It’s mostly to hold everything together.”

“Quarter cup, got it.”

“Okay, so we add in our eggs, and the flour, salt, and pepper. Those I usually just eyeball.”

“Because you’re such an accomplished chef, you can do that.”

“Do not _sass_ the latke master,” Holster says with mock-pretention. “I am teaching you to please your future husband.”

“ _Hush,_ you,” Bitty hisses, swatting at Holster.

“Fine, fine. So, we just basically mix all this shit together until it’s uh… mixed.”

Bitty gives him a _look_.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything at all,” Bitty says innocently.

Holster supervises as Bitty dutifully mixes the eggs, flour, salt, and pepper into the big mixing bowl.

When it looks good, Holster pushes his sleeves up further past his elbows.

“Alright, so I forgot to turn the stove on, so let’s get the oil heating up,” Holster says a bit sheepishly.

They wait a few minutes, talking about hockey (obviously), and when the oil starts to crackle a bit, Holster turns the heat down just a bit.

“That should be good,” he says. “Now, watch closely.”

Whiskey, Tango, Dex, Nursey, and Chowder stop what they’re doing, too, to gather around and watch what Holster is about to do.

He sticks his hands into the bowl of goopy potato-egg-flour mixture, grabbing a medium-sized handful.

He squeezes, letting eggs ooze over his hands, before shaking his fistful of latke mixture, and swinging over to the frying pan.

“Here’s the worst part,” Holster says.

Slowly, carefully, he places the lump of latke mixture into the pan, leaping back with a very dignified yelp as the oil pops at him in reply to his offering.

Bitty laughs at his skittishness, but hot oil _hurts_ , okay?

He repeats the process three more times, until there’s no more room for latkes in the pan.

Chowder and Tango “ooh” in appreciation of the sizzle.

“Chill,” Nursey says, in typical Nursey fashion.

Dex just nods appreciatively and returns to his station.

“I’m beginning to see how even you can make these,” Bitty teases.

“Latkes require _skill_ , Bitty.”

“Alright, so how long do they fry for?” Bitty asks, returning to the task at hand.

“About three or four minutes,” Holster says, “and then we use my special latke-flipper, then they do another three, four minutes on the other side.”

“You know it’s called a spatula, right?” Bitty deadpans.

“No, it’s _not!”_ Holster says, brandishing what looks at first glance to be, well… a spatula. “It is a special latke-flipper, because it’s got a menorah on it!”

He’s waving it around in front of Bitty’s face, so Bitty grabs it so he can actually see it.

Sure enough, there is a cut-out in the spatula that says “Happy Hanukkah” and is meant to look like a menorah.

“So you see, it is my special latke-flipper,” Holster says, preening.

“If you insist,” Bitty smiles.

“I do.”

He flips the latkes carefully, wiggling his novelty spatula under each one before flopping them over to the other side.

They sizzle loudly and pop a few times. Holster hisses as grease lands on his forearm.

His timing was almost _perfect_ , though, because the tops are now a nice golden-brown color.

Another three and a half minutes or so, and Holster follows his gut instinct that they’re ready to come out, and he scootches Bitty out of the way.

He scoops up the first latke, transporting it like precious cargo over to the cooling rack that Bitty uses for his cookies, now covered in paper towels.

Once all four latkes are safely out of the frying pan, he gestures to Bitty.

“Well? Get your hands in there, make up a latke or four,” he prompts.

Bitty steps up to the bowl and with the kind of concentration Bitty reserves for hockey and pies, he molds a handful of latke mixture, squeezes the excess moisture, and moves to the frying pan.

The oil has gotten really hot, and it spits fiery grease at Bitty, but he keeps his cool.

He makes the other three, only flinching a little as the pan hisses and pops.

As soon as he’s done, he turns immediately to Holster like a puppy. “Did I do it right?” Bitty asks. “You didn’t say anything, so…”

“No, you did great,” Holster assures him. “I’ll tell you when to flip them for this batch, and then next round you can try on your own.”

“It’s just timing, right?” Bitty asks, but he seems uncertain.

“It’s _mostly_ timing,” Holster says cryptically.

He firmly believes that he has an innate understanding of when latkes are ready to flip that cannot be learned.

It’s in his blood, perhaps.

No, Holster does not think that all Jewish people can correctly guess the exact moment to flip a latke; he has seen his aunt serve some _seriously_ questionable latkes, undercooked right next to burned so bad as to be inedible. But he, Adam Birkholtz, is the Latke Whisperer.

“I’m the Latke Whisperer,” he says under his breath.

“What was that, hon?” Bitty asks.

“No, no, nothing,” Holster says under his breath. 

He tells Bitty to flip and listens in to Nursey and Dex’s discussion about their next game.

Despite the distraction, Holster never forgets about the latkes, and he tells Bitty to pull the batch out at exactly the right time, as always.

It’s Holster’s gift to this world.

Tango and Chowder have long since finished their tasks of washing potatoes and cutting the onions, respectively, and they’re now seated at the kitchen table.

“I can take a shift grating potatoes, if you want,” Chowder offers Dex.

“That would be great,” Dex says. “My hands are cramping.”

Whiskey makes a pitiful face at Tango, who thankfully takes the hint, and offers the same as Chowder.

It takes Tango a moment to find his rhythm, grating his knuckle by accident and whining that his finger is bleeding.

Bitty, as per usual, tries to momma bird him.

“Bitty, you are frying latkes. Someone else can get him a damn band-aid,” Holster says, rolling his eyes.

Dex rolls his eyes but goes to get a band-aid for Tango.

“And that’s exactly why I didn’t want to be on grater duty,” Nursey says sagely.

“Nursey, sweetheart, we would never have given you anything sharp, don’t you worry,” Bitty tuts.

Dex returns, dresses Tango’s wound, and the potato grating continues until all of the bags are empty.

“You sure we didn’t make _too_ many potatoes?” Whiskey asks, eyeing the three enormous mixing bowls full of shredded potatoes dubiously.

“Lord, I’m more worried we didn’t get _enough_ ,” Bitty laughs.

“Trust me, Whiskey: this is a good amount,” Holster says.

They turn the oven on warm so the first batches of latkes don’t go cold while the rest are frying.

By the time Ransom shows up, having had a late afternoon class, Holster and Bitty have taken turns braving the popping oil and have cranked out 48 latkes.

There is still potato.

“That’s a lotta latkes,” Ransom grins, crossing the kitchen and giving Holster’s shoulders a brief squeeze. 

“Well we gotta lotta hungry people to feed,” Holster grins right back.

By the time all of the potatoes are fried up, they’ve made up ninety-two latkes—twenty-three batches—and Holster and Bitty are ready to collapse.

Luckily, that’s where the rests of the team takes over.

Jack, Lardo, and Ford set the table up buffet-style, while Shitty goes to round up the rest of the team who has been trickling into the Haus since classes let out or else have been holed up trying to do homework.

Farmer arrives with a bottle wine, and Ollie and Wicks each brought two-liters of soda.

“Gather round, gather round!” Holster yells. And when _Holster_ yells…

“Bro, we’re _right here_ ,” Nursey says, hands over his ears.

The final stragglers make their way to the table, where the spread is on full display.

“Alright, before we eat, an important note for those new to Haus Hanukkah,” Holster says.

“ _Applesauce,_ ” Jack says with feeling, seemingly unprompted.

“Oh geez, here we go again,” Lardo groans.

“Jack, honey, just let people—” Bitty tries.

“No, Bits. There is a right way to eat latkes, and it’s with _applesauce_ ,” he insists. “What Holster does is… it’s an abomination.”

“Why Jack, whatever could you mean?” Holster says, making eye contact. Daring him.

“What’s going on?” Farmer asks.

“Allow me,” Ransom says, “since these two get a little intense about their latke toppings. You have before you two options: applesauce, and sour cream. Jack here is firmly on Team Applesauce, while Holtzy grew up on the sour cream side of things.

“Holster now enjoys putting both, mixed together in an unholy puddle of goo, just to mess with Jack.” Ransom finishes, and Holster thinks Ransom might look a little proud of him.

“So basically, pick one _or_ the other,” Dex summarizes neatly.

“Got it,” Farmer says.

“But know that Jack will judge you if you touch that sour cream,” Lardo laughs.

They start filling plates with latkes, though no one dares to grab a topping until Jack grabs the applesauce spoon and puts a huge pile of it on his plate.

Bitty does the same, which Holster thinks is probably just to support his boyfriend, since normally Bitty is a dairy fiend.

Ransom gets a pass on not taking an sour cream, since he’s lactose intolerant, but Holster doubles up on sour cream and applesauce, as promised.

He’ll save mixing them for later, to optimize pissing Jack off.

Shitty, Farmer, and Dex take sour cream; Chowder, Nursey, Ford and Lardo take applesauce.

Whiskey stares at both before shrugging and not taking either.

Tango takes both, though he keeps both on opposite sides of his plate, clearly separated. “I’ve never had them, so I don’t know which one I like better,” he says. “It seems fair to try both, right?”

Ollie takes sour cream and Wicks takes applesauce.

Or maybe Wicks is the one who takes the sour cream…

“We’ll share,” Probably-Ollie explains.

There isn’t room for everyone at the main table, since there’s fifteen of them gathered for the latke party, so once everyone fills their plates and has a drink, they migrate back to the main room.

When the tadpoles look unsure of where to go, Ransom takes the initiative and sits on the floor, setting his plate on the coffee table.

“Free seating, my dudes,” he tells them.

Everyone manages to wedge themselves into some place comfortable enough in a big circle in the living room.

“A toast,” Shitty announces. “First, to Latke Master himself, Mister Adam Birkholtz!”

Everyone whoops and hollers.

“To his Latke Apprentice, Mister Eric Bittle!” Shitty continues.

Another chorus of cheers.

“To the prep team: Nursey, Dex, Chowder, Whiskey and Tango!”

“And finally, to all of us in this fine ass Haus: may we always come together as a community of mostly goyim to support our Jewish bros and help them eat all this fuckin’ delicious food!”

The loudest cheer yet.

“L’chaim!” Holster yells, raising his wine glass.

A confident “L’chaim!” rises up from about six people, a few mumble something that sounds _mostly_ like l’chaim, and a few cowards just say “cheers”.

Holster tries not to notice, but he can definitely tell which ones Bitty made and which ones he did, because Bitty’s aren’t always cooked to the right degree of crispiness that Holster likes.

But hey, it’s greasy, fried potatoes.

So what’s not to love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the spatula ](https://www.amazon.com/Hanukkah-Kitchen-Cooking-Utensils-Set/dp/B0779NYBK4)
> 
> tell me in the comments if you're team applesauce or team sour cream
> 
> thank you to everyone who has read, i hope you're enjoying !


	4. Night Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Very Musical SMH...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -skateboards in past ten pm- what up, typing with one hand is arduous and painful, i'm struggling
> 
> i loved the comments on the last chapter, thank u so much to everyone for weighing in

“Adam Levi Birkholtz, how _dare_ you keep this from me,” Ransom says, bursting into the living room where Holster has been working slowly and distractedly for the past forty-five minutes.

“Bro, you know I don’t actually have a middle name,” Holster says. “But what have I purportedly been hiding from you?”

“It doesn’t have the same oomph without a middle name,” Ransom shrugs. Then he suddenly remembers his reason for barging in here in the first place. “Not the point! Why didn’t you tell me there was _kick ass_ music for Hanukkah times?”

“I… didn’t think you’d be that interested?” Holster says honestly. “You’re not Jewish.”

“No, but what is religion in the face of an _absolute banger_ of an acapella arrangement?”

Holster laughs. “So, you found the Maccabeats?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ransom enthuses. “And like, I need to learn the lyrics, so I can harmonize with these sweet bros.”

“I can help you with that,” Holster says. “Don’t ask me to translate beyond the basics, but I can help you with the words.”

“I love you so much, bro.”

“Just as a friendly eff-why-eye, though, there’s way more than just Maccabeats out there. And it’s not just Hanukkah themed.”

Ransom’s eyes shine with excitement. “That’s the best fucking news. But let’s start with Hanukkah, yeah? Oh! Oh! We can sing something for the team!”

Holster laughs. “We could, but with only two people a capella kind of loses some of its coolness factor.”

“Who else can we conscript then?” Ransom insists.

Holster thinks about it a moment, stroking the stubble on his jaw.

“What if we offered dibs?” he grins conspiratorially.

“Wicked,” Ransom agrees.

It takes them both less than ten seconds to come to the conclusion that neither Nursey nor Dex would be down for a capella in front of the Hausmates, not even with dibs on the line.

“Ollie and Wicks,” they say in unison, fist bumping.

“Yeah, sure,” Wicks says when they ask. Ollie is, mysteriously, not around, though the two are usually such a unit.

They didn’t even have to say it would be for dibs; he already agreed.

“Though,” he adds, “if you’re going for a capella, Ollie drops a mad beat.”

Ransom and Holster exchange a look of slight confusion until realization dawns on them three point one seconds later.

Ollie can _beatbox._

“Oh we are doing Al Hanissim and nothing can stop us,” Holster says, pumping his fist.

“Not sure what that means, but sounds good. You got music, or are we going by ear?” Wicks asks.

It’s as simple as that.

Wicks texts Ollie to meet them at the Haus, and they start going over the lyrics.

Holster corrects some pronunciation here and there, but they’re doing pretty well for not knowing any Hebrew.

Wicks doesn’t quite get the _ch_ , but he promises he’ll work on it.

Holster will start with the main melody, then switch to a bass line; Ransom will cover the baritone range, Wicks has a solid tenor, and Ollie is beatboxing, but agrees to do some “oohs” at the beginning.

He’s mostly a tenor, too, tho a little more sturdy in the baritone range than Wicks.

In all, their little impromptu group is incredibly well rounded considering this has been a fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants endeavor.

They don’t have much time, since they have a game tomorrow and then it’ll be the weekend, and Ransom is dying to do it, so they decide they’ll just practice a little this afternoon, and then sing for the Haus as a study break around nine, nine-thirty.

Holster has been humming under his breath all day.

He’s not much of a performer, not really, but he’s excited to do their little “concert” this evening.

Mostly, he thinks seeing everyone’s faces when Ollie drops the beat is going to be _hilarious_.

It’s almost nine, so he closes the notebook he was doodling hockey plays in (instead of econ homework, of course), and nudges Ransom.

“You good to go, bro?” he asks.

“Damn, it’s nine already?” Ransom asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Near about.”

“Sweet. I’ll text Ollie and Wicks to get over here,” Ransom offers.

“They’re probably already on their way,” Holter shrugs. “They’re like, mad punctual.”

“Let’s round up the gang, then,” Ransom says.

They go around the Haus, telling everyone, “in about fifteen minutes, your presence in the living room is so humbly requested for a special Hanukkah PSA.”

Ollie and Wicks show up, and they go down to the basement to warm up a little, though Ollie and Wicks say they warmed up before they got here.

They have their lyrics printed out, as well as arrangement notes, and they decide it’s just for funsies, and it’s good enough for the Haus.

“Lady, gentlemen, and whomst-ever else you are, we are proud to present, for the first time, the Hanukkah Haus Ensemble!” Ransom announces.

Nursey snort-laughs. “The what?”

“We decided to put together a little a capella concert for you guys,” Holster explains. “Like, this afternoon, we decided. The name is a work in progress.”

“Clearly,” Dex says with a smirk.

“We will not stand for any snark, young man,” Holster says with mock-seriousness.

“My apologies,” Dex says drily, clearly not sorry at all. He mimes zipping his lips, though, and Ransom laughs.

“Anyway, this is a song called [Al Hanissim](https://youtu.be/GlILx9QQ7Sw),” Holster says.

He clears his throat, and counts them in.

He begins singing, and the key is a little higher than he usually sings, but he’s a strong enough singer that he thinks it sounds alright.

The others “ooh” in harmony, and then Ollie busts in with a crazy beat, and the Haus erupts in surprised gasps and someone – Chowder?—says “oh _shit_ ”.

Bitty has his phone up, recording, but his other hand is covering his mouth, which is hanging open in shock.

Their arrangement is a lot simpler than the original, given their lack of both numbers and prep time, but they’re mostly in tune with each other, and their audience is nodding along to the beat appreciatively.

Wicks ended up doing more oohs and ahhs, since he had a harder time with the Hebrew, but Ransom is holding his own on pronunciation.

Holster is super proud of his bros, and he’s feeling pretty special that they came together on such short notice to put this together.

When Ollie hits the final “cymbal” crash, the living room explodes in applause.

Bitty yells that he’s sending it to Jack and Shitty immediately, and Ransom yells back “you fucking better, Bitty!”

It’s the perfect Hanukkah mood, Holster thinks: music, laughter, friendship.

Maybe there’s still some leftover latkes he can heat up…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the Maccabeats' version of Al Hanissim ](https://youtu.be/GlILx9QQ7Sw) in case u didn't click on it in the fic  
> i love them but there's so much besides them for kickin' jewish a capella music
> 
> anyway thanks for continuing to read ! see u tomorrow :)


	5. Night Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanukkah oh Hanukkah, come light the menorah...
> 
> In which Ford brings up a perfectly valid concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by (and directly quoting) [ gutsybitsies's tumblr post ](http://gutsybitsies.tumblr.com/post/164218217565/ford-you-have-a-menorah-in-your-attic-every), with permission :)
> 
> pls no references to the forbidden au, ok ? let's stay in the holiday spirit

“There’s something really peaceful about candlelight, I think,” Holster murmurs to Ransom.

He’s just lit his Chanukkiah for the fifth night, and the six flames dance gently in the draftiness of the attic.

He and Ransom are just admiring the light and the reflection of the flames in the window pane and for once, the Haus is peaceful and quiet for a Thursday night.

Bitty is downstairs making a pie – no, he will not try to _fry_ a _pie,_ Adam Birkholtz, not even for Hanukkah—and everyone else is apparently doing homework or chilling.

Holster honestly thinks it might be him who makes the most noise around the Haus, anyway, so if he’s quietly watching the Chanukkiah then that might explain things. 

Nevertheless, after a few moments, they see Ford walking up to the Haus.

“Hey, everybody,” she calls out. It’s muffled, but just barely audible up in the attic.

“I’ll go down and say hey,” Ransom says. “You stay with the open flames.”

“Obviously. Say hey from me, though.”

“For sure, bro.”

Ransom leaves, and Holster watches the flames a moment longer before sighing. He really should try to make some progress on that essay that’s due on Monday, as he hasn’t started yet. It’s only Thursday, but the professor is a hardass and he asked for ten to twelve pages, so they had better be a _good_ ten to twelve pages if he wants to keep up his GPA.

It’s really not in the spirit of Hanukkah, Holster thinks, to assign gigantic assignments. But the professor is probably not Jewish, and it likely never occurred to him.

Besides, Hanukkah isn’t particularly religiously significant, as far as Jewish holidays go, so he supposes it just can’t be helped.

He’s startled out of his reverie by a timid knock on the door.

“Yeah?” he calls.

The door swings open and he sees Ford, with her usual red scarf in her hair, wearing light colored jeans and a sweatshirt with rainbow colored cat heads floating in outer space.

“That sweatshirt is swawesome,” Holster says in greeting.

“Ah, thanks!” Ford smiles. “My sister got it for me for my birthday this year.”

“She has good taste,” Holster grins back. “So, what brings you to the attic?”

“Ah, yeah. Bitty invited me over because he said there was pie and I’ve had a rough week,” she begins. “It’s near the end of the semester, you know.”

Holster nods in understanding.

“Anyway, I saw your menorah in the window, and I guess I just didn’t notice it before, but...”

“Ah, you wanted to see it?” Holster asks. “I mean, technically, it’s not a menorah, that’s only when they’re at a temple. This is called a Chanukkiah.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“No worries,” Holster says good-naturedly with a shrug. “Most people don’t know that.”

“It’s really pretty,” Ford says, stepping closer.

Holster’s Chanukkiah isn’t particularly ornate, just a polished silver with a magen david and a few little swirls underneath the candles. His parents had gifted it to him for his first Hanukkah away from home, so it feels a little extra special.

“Yeah, I think so too,” he says.

Ransom comes back, drying his hands on his jeans.

“Hey bros, still staring at the candles?” he asks, but there’s not judgement or teasing.

He’s definitely spent a lot of time staring at the Chanukkiah with Holster, so he can’t say anything.

Holster and Ford shuffle a little to make room for Ransom to crowd around the window, too.

They’re quiet a moment before Ford takes a quick breath, like she’s about to speak, but then stops herself.

Holster raises his eyebrows questioningly, leaning forward to catch her gaze.

“What?”

“No, it’s nothing,” she says.

“No, come on. I won’t be offended if you have a question or something. I’m happy to educate anyone associated with SMH so you are well-informed goyim that can make me proud. So what’s up?”

“It’s literally not even about Hanukkah itself,” Ford says.

“Well, go ahead anyway,” Holster encourages her.

“It’s just… you live in a wooden house. Isn’t this a fire hazard?” she asks, cringing a little.

Holster and Ransom both laugh.

“That’s why we always stay with it. Never leave the Chanukkiah alone, not even for a bathroom break,” Ransom says. “With the drafts up here, you never know. We take down the curtain and everything but…”

“Hanukkah miracle, baby! We haven’t burned down the Haus yet!” Holster cries triumphantly.

“What do you mean _yet?_ ” Ford shrieks.

“It’s only December, Ford. And only the fifth night. One never knows,” Ransom says solemnly.

“One never knows,” Holster echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Holster's chanukkiah ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/29233640@N07/11221756363)
> 
> i'm not thrilled with the ending but hand hurts so i'm afraid that's as good as it's gonna get, lads


	6. Night Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hashtag Hanukkat :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to my cat loving friend, u know who u are buddy :)))

“Bitty, I need a favor,” Holster says.

He and Ransom are giving Bitty their best puppy dog eyes as Bitty mixes cookie dough.

“I think you’ve eaten enough raw cookie dough for a life time,” Bitty deadpans, one eyebrow raised.

“No, no, the favor isn’t about your delicious baked goods,” Holster assures him.

“Oh, well, what’s up then?” Bitty asks, putting the mixing bowl on the counter and wiping his hands on his apron.

“Well, it’s kind of a favor we need from Jack,” Holster hedges.

Bitty sighs deeply as though he is the most put-upon person in the world. In the Haus, perhaps, he is. “What is it?”

“So here’s the situation,” Ransom says, taking over. “Kent Parson has a cat—Kit Purrson, yes I know the pun is _perfect_ —and we shamelessly follow her Instagram, because she’s an _angel_. Because Kent Parson literally made his cat her own insta.

“Anyway, so we need you to ask Jack to ask Kent Parson to post Kit Purrson as a Hanukkat,” Ransom concludes.

There’s a long, heavy beat of silence while Bitty processes what he’s just heard.

And then he flat out _guffaws_.

“Why on _earth_ would Parse do that?” Bitty finally manages to ask. “Is he even Jewish?”

“It only matters if _Kit_ is Jewish,” Holster mutters.

“Ah, yes, of course, well why don’t we just ask her her religious affiliations?” Bitty snarks.

“We already commented that she should participate, but we never got a reply and it’s already the sixth night so what if she doesn’t see it in time?” Ransom whines.

“You do know she isn’t the one reading and posting on this account, right?”

“Bitty, come on! Jack will listen to you. He likes Hanukkah, he loves cats. And with the right encouragement from his boyfriend, I think he could be persuaded—”

“Y’all, Jack and Parse are just barely talking to each other again. I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Bitty says, and he at least sounds apologetic.

Holster and Ransom slump, defeated.

“Unless…” Bitty says, thinking aloud.

They perk up like a dog being told it’s time for a walk.

“Unless?” Holster presses.

“You could ask Tater to convince Parse, probably.”

Ransom freezes. “T-Tater?”

“Wait, Tater is friends with Kent Parson?” Holster asks.

“Friends, frenemies, still a little unclear. But they know each other, and from the way Tater talks, they text pretty regularly. He’s probably your best bet,” Bitty shrugs.

“And uh, how would we… contact… Tater?” Holster says gently.

Ransom is nearly in coral reef mode next to him, so he puts an arm around his bro’s shoulder for both physical and emotional support.

“I’ve got him on WhatsApp,” Bitty says, as if having NHL players’ contact info on a texting app is _normal_.

“So you’ll text him for us?” Holster asks, and Ransom is starting to recover now that it looks like he doesn’t have to directly speak to Tater himself.

“No, I’ll forward his info and tell him who you are and that you’re going to send him an incredibly stupid message,” Bitty laughs darkly.

“Bits! You wound me!” Holster wails.

As promised, Bitty texts Tater that his friends have a “very important question” to ask him, and would he mind if Bitty shared Tater’s contact information.

Curiosity must get the best of Tater, because he apparently agreed, and an hour later, Ransom and Holster are staring at Holster’s phone, holding his phone like it contains a precious and fragile artifact.

The message is blank.

The cursor blinks, mocking them.

“Just gonna start with a ‘hey’,” Holster whispers.

“Is that too casual though?” Ransom whispers back. He has no idea why they’re whispering, only that it feels like this is a top-secret mission. “He’s a professional hockey player.”

“Yeah, and so is Jack!” Holster reasons.

“Jack isn’t casual, though.”

“He’s more casual now, I think,” Holster says.

“True, but … we don’t really know Tater. I don’t even think we should be texting him, even though we have been formally introduced and given express permission to do so.”

“He seems like a chill guy,” Holster insists. “I’m gonna start with ‘hey’.”

“We’re _cooked_ , dude,” Ransom whines.

Another fifteen painful minutes later, they have a two sentence text:

_Hey Mr. Mashkov, this is Bitty’s friends, Adam and Justin. We know this is a kind of crazy request, but we were wondering if you would be willing to make a suggestion to Kent Parson for his cat’s Instagram account._

It seems hideously formal for a text message, and calling themselves by their real names seems extra weird considering they’re texting a guy who answers to “Tater”, but they figure it’s best to start extra polite and they can scale back as needed.

When Holster’s phone vibrates with the reply, he nearly chucks his phone across the room in surprise.

“Is it him?” Ransom hisses. “Did he already reply?”

“It’s him!”

“What does it say?! READ IT, ADAM,” Ransom commands.

“Calm _down_ , holy shit bro,” Holster says, trying to regain his own composure. “Okay, okay. Here we go.”

_You are Ransom and Holster, yes? This is who Little B tell me is texting. And please, you call me Tater. Mr Mashkov is for TV interview._

“ _Told_ you we should’ve used our hockey nicknames,” Ransom groans.

“You did not, you big baby,” Holster says, rolling his eyes. “Okay, reply: ‘Yes, that’s us! Nice to meet you, Tater.’”

“Dude, we’re not meeting him, though, we’re texting. It’s weird.”

“What would you have me write? ‘Nice to text you’? That’s even worse.”

“It’s gonna take us til next Hanukkah just to ask him,” Ransom groans.

“No, it’s not. We’re fine. Let’s just… be normal. Alright: ‘Yes, that’s us—we weren’t sure how Bitty introduced us. Hope you’re having a good night.’”

“That’s… ugh, fine, just send it,” Ransom acquiesces.

Holster sends it, and the reply comes back, and he _doesn’t_ jump this time. (It was a singular hiccup, alright?)

 _“Yes, good night,”_ Holster reads. “ _I’m eat mozzarella sticks – fried cheese is perfect for Hanukkah, yes?”_

As Holster reads the end of the message, his voice gets louder and higher-pitched.

“TATER IS JEWISH?” Holster screeches.

It’s very unbecoming, but he has _feelings_.

“Dear God you’re loud,” Bitty calls from the kitchen.

“You could have told me!” Holster yells back.

“Hey, Holster: Tater is Jewish!” Bitty cackles.

“That little menace,” Holster grumbles to Ransom. “Okay, uh… ‘Mozzarella sticks are perfect any time! And chag sameach, we didn’t know you were Jewish, too!’”

“This much small talk is killing me,” Ransom mutters.

“Patience, Rans,” Holster says gently. “He texts so fast, I’m sweating. _So what you are wanting from Kent Parson’s cat?”_

“Ask him if he’s heard of the hashtag Hanukkat,” Ransom prompts.

The reply comes in, and Holster stares at it for a moment. “It’s just a bunch of closed parentheses?”

Ransom furrows his brow, and then another text arrives.

_I’m know exactly what to do._

Ransom and Holster exchange a look of confused excitement.

Another text from Tater: _He says check Instagram, one hour._

Ransom and Holster can’t contain their absolute glee and have a celly right in the middle of the attic.

They jump up and down, hugging each other like they’ve just scored a game winner.

The hour wait, however, is not nearly so exciting.

Holster can’t stop checking the time, even though they’ve already set a countdown timer for an hour.

Bitty’s cookies are finished and devoured before they even get a chance to really cool.

Holster paces so much that they’re going to need to replace the floorboards if he doesn’t quit.

Ransom bites at his hangnails, and struggles to find a comfortable position in the beanbag chair in the corner.

When the time goes off, they both gasp in relief, rushing to open the app.

No updates.

They wait another minute.

Nothing.

They wait six more minutes.

Nothing.

At eleven minutes past the hour, Ransom whines. “It would be _mad_ uncool to text Tater again, right?”

“Dude, yes. I’m impatient too, but we have to assume the hour was an estimate. No need to panic. We’re cool.”

At seventeen minutes past the hour, Holster gets an Instagram notification that he was tagged in a post. By Kit Purrson.

_@Holster4SMH wanted to know if I celebrate #hannukah, and I have good news: I’m the #cutest #hanukkat there is!_

There is an eight-photo slideshow.

The first two are different angles of her sitting a safe distance from a Chanukkiyah with six candles lit.

In the third, she is wearing a _tiny_ kippah, but looks like she is ready to get rid of it in half a second.

In the fourth, she is looking disinterestedly at a stuffed dreidel that might actually be more of a dog toy than for cats.

In the fifth, she is pawing at the stuffed dreidel, but she’s clearly not into it.

In the sixth, she is looking disdainfully at a mini latke that was likely prepared specially for her.

In the seventh, she has apparently taken a bite of the latke, and seems to think it’s not as bad as she thought in the previous photo.

In the seventh, she is batting at what appears to be a gold coin tied to a string.

In the final photo, she is wearing the kippah again, posed on top of a book as though she might be reading it.

Each new photo makes Ransom and Holster squeal with delight.

“We have truly been hashtag blessed this day,” Ransom says, in awe.

“I think we owe Tater our lives,” Holster says back.

“Oh, definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone were to want to draw Kit... in any of these photos....... my tumblr is ricekrispyjoints lmao pls i can't draw but i need more #hanukkats (Hanukkit???)


	7. Night Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ♪♫ Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I bought it at the murder stop and shop for a dollar and it came with candy inside ♪♫  
> Yeah, that doesn't really fit the melody very well.   
> In which Jack is a delightful child, Nursey and Dex make everything a competition, and Lardo may or may not have some kind of dreidel magic...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My true colors are showing, these chapters keep getting longer and longer...  
> anyway, hope you're having a good Hanukkah, it's almost over :')

On Saturday night, Jack and Shitty are free to come down to Samwell, so Holster has bought approximately three hundred chocolate coins and the most ridiculous dreidel he could find.

It’s glittery blue plastic with brightly colored letters.

When he bought it, there was kosher candy inside.

He and Ransom had made quick work of the candy, and now the dreidel itself is ready for play.

He has also done the charitable thing, which is copy out the Hebrew letters and what they mean, so that his goyische friends can play correctly, and there won’t be _any cheating_.

Holster mentally curses his older cousin, Greg, who was six years older than Holster and always lied to him about which letter he got and what the letter meant.

It took Holster three years to figure out that _none_ of the letters meant that you had to put half of your own winnings into the pot.

Anyway, Holster’s not an asshole, so he wants everyone to know which letter means what.

A few of the guys will probably remember from previous Hanukkahs, so he only makes four copies of the explanation.

He takes the chocolate coins as well as his Chanukkiah downstairs, since no one will be in the attic for a while.

Bitty has arranged a bunch of pillows all over the floor in the main room, probably because he hates the couch.

“Hey, Holster,” Jack says, a soft smile on his face. “I brought my Chanukkiah too. Thought it could be nice to have both of them.”

“Aw, that’s a great idea, Jack. Thanks bro.”

They set up the Chanukkiyot in the front window, light the candles, and Holster shows Jack the dreidel they’ll be using.

“That’s… well that’s something,” Jack says diplomatically.

“I found it for a dollar,” Holster grins. “It came with candy inside.”

“Of course it did,” Jack chuckles. “What happened to that nice wooden one we used last year?”

“Honestly, I have _no_ idea where it went,” Holster shrugs.

Shitty approaches, placing a hand on Jack’s and Holster’s shoulders. “We ready to spin this shit?” he asks.

“Sure thing,” Holster says, pulling out the notecards with the right ups on them.

“Get your asses in here!” Shitty yells. “It’s time to play some motherfucking dreidl!”

When everyone is gathered around – Ransom, Lardo, Shitty, Jack, Bitty, Nursey, Chowder, Dex, Ollie, Wicks, and Tango—he clears his throat and launches into his spiel.

“Alright, so reminder for those who have played before and explanation for those who haven’t, this—” Holster brandishes the plastic toy— “is a dreidel. It’s a top. You spin it, you win chocolate coins.”

“Get dat gelt!” Ransom whoops.

Holster points at Ransom and winks, before continuing.

“So, there’s a Hebrew letter on each side. Each letter stands for the sentence _nes gadol hayah sham,_ which means ‘a great miracle happened there’. ‘There’ means Israel, if you were wondering, Tango.”

Tango looks relieved that Holster answered his yet unasked question.

“Anyway, so _nes_ starts with the letter nen,” Holster says, and points it out on the dreidel. “That’s this one. If you get nen, that means nothing happens.

“Next is _gadol_ , which starts with the letter gimel,” he continues, and again shows it to the room. “If you get gimel, then you win _everything_ in the pot.”

A wave of “ooh”s passes around the room, and Shitty woops.

“ _Hayah_ starts with hei, which stands for half,” Holster continues, presenting the third side like he’s a presenter on a game show. “You win half the pot if you get hei.”

“And finally, my personal favorite, is shin—”

“Shin, shin, put one in!” Jack chants like a little kid, surprising a few of the younger guys who don’t really know him that well.

“Yes, Jack, shin means you put one piece in. And when someone gets shin, a lot of times, you say…” Holster trails off and lets Jack say it again.

“Shin, shin, put one in!” he says, and Bitty says it with him too.

“Very good,” Holster laughs. “Now, pop quiz!”

Everyone groans.

“It’s four letters, you can do it, ya bums,” Holster says sternly. “Jack, no telling Bitty the answers. Now, which letter is this?”

He shows them all gimel.

“The half one?” Dex asks.

Holster makes a loud buzzer noise. “Wrong!”

“It’s the all one! Gim… gimel?” Bitty tries.

“Good job, Bits,” Jack says, giving Bitty a side hug.

“Yes, this is gimel, and you get the whole pot,” Holster confirms. “How about… this one?”

He shows nen.

“None!” Nursey says.

“It’s nen, so partial credit,” Holster says.

Nursey sticks out his tongue at Dex. “I got one more than you.”

“But what does nen mean, Nursey?” Ransom prompts.

“It means none, like you get none and you take none,” Nursey says.

“Good,” Ransom says, nodding.

“This one?” Holster asks, showing hei.

“Half,” Chowder says. “It’s not the shin one, and we did the others. Has to be half.”

“Indeed it is, Chowder. And for full credit, what’s the name of the Hebrew letter?” Holster prompts.

“H….hi?” Chowder tries. “No, wait, hei!”

“Very good, Chowder,” Holster says.

“Proud of you,” Ransom says.

“Alright, last one is—”

Holster is cut off by the whole room chanting, “shin, shin, put one in!”

He laughs, loud and carefree. “Sounds like you got that one. Alright, let’s divvy up this chocolate and get to the playing!”

When everyone has a moderate pile of chocolate to start with, and the pot is modestly filled with ten pieces, Holster claps his hands together.

“So, shall we play?” he asks.

A resounding cry of agreement fills the room.

“Who starts?” Chowder asks.

“Tradition says youngest goes first,” Jack says. “So, who’s that?”

“Tango,” Lardo supplies.

“Why do you know that?” Shitty wonders.

“Team rosters, bro.”

“I was gonna assume she just had a magical power that allowed her to guess my age,” Tango says, and no one is really sure if he was joking or not.

Holster wants to believe it’s a joke, but nothing in his face gives it away.

“Alright, then,” Holster says, “give her a spin!”

Tango doesn’t get a very good spin, as the plastic toy scatters across the floor and lands unceremoniously not even five seconds after he launched it.

It lands on nen.

“Well, an uneventful start to the game,” Holster says. “Ollie, you’re next.”

“Hang on, we have to put a piece in, to maintain the pot,” Jack reminds, tossing a piece in.

“Ah, shit, I forgot about that. Thanks,” Holster says, and also puts a piece in the middle.

When everyone has followed suit, Ollie picks up the dreidel.

“Gimme gimel,” Ollie pleads, looking up as though praying for it.

He gets a decent spin, and everyone watches with anticipation as it spins for a good seven or eight seconds before it begins to wobble, and falls on hei.

“Half!” he cries, triumphant.

“Don’t get too excited there, Ollie,” Lardo smirks. “Plenty of time for a shin-streak.”

Ollie puts his hands over his chocolate possessively.

Everyone puts in a piece, and then Wicks spins, and he gets nen, too.

A piece goes in, and then it’s Nursey’s turn.

He gets a good spin, and looks pretty smug about his being the longest so far, until it falls…

“SHIN, SHIN, PUT ONE IN!” Holster, Jack, Ransom, Lardo, and Bitty all holler.

Nursey groans and puts the smallest of his chocolate coins in the middle of their circle.

The group feeds the pot, and Chowder goes next.

He watches the dreidel wobble a few seconds and then it falls on gimel.

“Oh, nice!” Chowder smiles, and drags the pile of chocolate towards himself.

“If anyone deserves gimel on this team, it’s Chowder,” Dex says.

Dex spins, and he claims his spin goes longer than Nursey’s did, but Nursey disagrees, and they argue about how they have to time it next time.

They’re too distracted to notice that Dex got hei.

“Dex!” Ransom calls out, waving a hand to get his attention. “Yo, dude, the competition is about how many coins you get, not how long the dreidel spins. Take your damn coins.”

“Oh, uh, which one is that?” he asks.

“It’s half, bro,” Nursey says.

“Oh hell yeah,” he says, and takes his winnings.

Bitty is next, and gets shin, to his dismay but everyone else’s delight, as they get to chant like schoolchildren.

Jack gets nen, and then Lardo is up.

Shitty sighs heavily.

“What?” Tango asks.

“Lardo, you will see, has signed a deal with some sort of magical entity of luck,” Shitty explains. “I have never seen her spin anything besides gimel. Ever.”

“Even though it’s statistically inappropriate!” Ransom wails.

Lardo shrugs. “Just got skills, gentlemen.”

She spins the dreidel, gets a _beautiful_ spin, and when it finally stops… gimel.

“I’ll be taking the pot, boys,” she says, a smug grin on her face.

They put in a new piece to start the pot up again, and carry on.

By the time they’re twenty minutes in, everyone but Lardo has gotten shin at least once (Lardo really does only spin gimel, and more than one accusation of cheating is put forth).

By twenty-five minutes in, everyone has more or less gotten the hang of how to spin the dreidel effectively, and so every second it spins, the rest of the group chants, “Shin! Shin! Shin! Shin!” and shakes their fists in time with the chant.

At half an hour in, Holster decides to up the drama.

“Alright, alright,” he says when it comes around to his turn again. “Let’s up the ante, shall we?”

He pulls out a new bag of chocolate coins and doubles the pot in the middle.

“Oh shit!” Ransom says.

“Chill,” Nursey says.

Holster gets nen, Ransom gets hei, Wicks gets shin.

Ollie gets hei, and then Nursey, Chowder, and Dex all get shin.

The circle is worked up into a frenzy, chanting “Shin! Shin! Shin!” so loudly that it’s a miracle there hasn’t been a noise complaint yet, when Bitty spins.

“Please, dear Lord, anything but shin!” Bitty whines.

Hashem must have been listening, Holster muses, because when the dreidel falls, it’s on gimel.

Abrupt silence, and then an explosion of yelling, including a creative string of curses.

Bitty is cackling gleefully as he helps himself to the pot of about thirty pieces.

They put in a piece to refill the pot, and Jack immediately gets hei.

Lardo gets gimel, as always, but at least she didn’t get the mega pot.

They continue playing a few more rounds, and when Holster thinks people are starting to get tired of playing, he decides to instigate the final plot twist.

“New rule: no more refilling the kitty. We play until it’s gone. Sudden death,” he announces.

He adds the last of the chocolate pieces he had set aside so that the pot has some forty pieces in it.

“Whoever wins that is gonna share, right?” Shitty asks a little mournfully. He has the fewest pieces of everyone.

“I’m not sharing,” Lardo says with no hesitation.

“You wound me, Lards,” Shitty says, dramatically grabbing his heart.

“Deal with it, Shits,” she says right back.

“No remorse,” Ransom says, shaking his head.

“Dreidel is a very serious game,” Lardo says simply.

“Damn, okay. Whose turn is it?” Holster asks.

“Ollie’s,” Wicks says.

Ollie gets nen, Wicks gets shin.

Nursey gets nen.

Chowder picks up the dreidel, and takes a couple of practice twists before launching the dreidel.

Amidst the chanting for shin, Chowder cries out, “LARDO GIVE ME YOUR STRENGTH.”

She laughs, but extends her hands over the spinning top, wiggling her fingers as though it might influence the dreidel.

The dreidel begins to slow down.

It wobbles.

It falls.

Gimel.

_Chaos._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a disreputable cousin named Greg who cheated his younger cousins out of gelt ? nooooo, that's 100% fiction......>.>


	8. Night Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Maccababy's gotta do, what a Maccababy's gotta do.
> 
> Time for a little nostalgia to close out the set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wonderful week of fried things, friends, and fic !   
> I hope you enjoy the 8th and final installment of this story :)

Holster has an assignment due Monday morning, and the rest of the Haus seems to be pretty deep in homework mode, too, so they order an alarming amount of fried chicken for delivery for dinner.

“What?” Holster shrugged, when Bitty made a face at his suggestion. “It’s fried.”

The fried chicken was consumed faster than should be humanly possible, even for a collegiate hockey team, and now Holster sits in front of his laptop, three measly sentences of his introduction staring right back at him.

This is going nowhere, fast.

He sighs deeply and pushes back from his desk.

Maybe some background noise would help, he thinks, so he opens his music library and scrolls absently, hoping something will catch his eye.

It’s the last night of Hanukkah, so he thinks maybe something thematic would be good.

Not that he’s never listened to Hanukkah music when it’s not Hanukkah, but he thinks he should mark the occasion, somehow.

Musical backdrop in place, he begins to write his essay, humming along with the melodies and singing when he knows all the words.

The essay writing is slow going, but at least it’s going.

Unfortunately, his Hanukkah playlist isn’t very long – only about fifty minutes—and _right_ when he’s getting into the groove of writing his essay, a song that is distinctly _not_ a Hanukkah song starts playing.

He groans.

“What’s up, buddy?” Ransom asks.

Holster gestures despairingly at his laptop.

“This shitty paper was finally going somewhere and then my playlist ended,” he sighs.

“That’s rough, bro,” Ransom says sympathetically. “I’ve had some good luck with putting a TV show on in the background—but it’s gotta be something you know by heart, so you’re not actually watching it.”

“I’m shocked that you of all people have done that,” Holster says. “But I won’t knock it til I’ve tried it.”

He opens Netflix and scrolls through his list, looking for something he knows really well.

“Oh man, Prince of Egypt,” he laughs as he scrolls. “That’s a pesach movie, though.”

“Is there a Hanukkah movie you know?” Ransom asks.

“There was a Rugrats Hanukkah special,” Holster says. “But it’s only an episode, I think.”

He types it into the Netflix search bar, anyway, but it doesn’t come up – not that he’s surprised.

He goes to YouTube next, thinking that he should at least make an attempt to watch it legally before resorting to slightly piratical methods, but there’s nothing but clips on YouTube.

To Google it is, he thinks.

Some wonderful soul has uploaded a mirrored version onto Dailymotion, so he clicks on it.

It’s not something he knows by heart, but it’s only twenty-six minutes.

The essay can wait.

He’s not even a minute in when Ransom sidles up to him.

“Can I watch too, bro?” he asks sheepishly.

“Of course,” Holster says, and they get comfy on the lower bunkbed, balancing the laptop between their thighs.

“A Maccababy’s gotta do, what a Maccababy’s gotta do,” Holster says along with Tommy.

“These latkes have been clogging our people’s arteries for two thousand years!” Holster laughs along with Boris.

They make horrible spitting noises with Angelica when she hocks out the _H_ in Hanukkah.

When Didi worries that Stu has done something “inappropriate”, Ransom cackles, “TOO LATE.”

“We should make a drinking game out of this,” Holster laughs.

“It’s _Sunday,_ dude,” Ransom says.

“Next year, then,” Holster says. “But like, every Yiddish word is a drink. Every pun is a drink.”

“We’re gonna get sloshed,” Ransom says.

“ _Verstunken,_ ” Holster agrees. “But it’s only a twenty-six-minute episode.”

“The only thing saving our livers,” Ransom says sagely.

“ANGELICA YOU RUDE LITTLE GREMLIN,” Holster yells when she insults the latkes.

“He broke a _shin_ ,” Ransom cackles as the man wearing the dreidel costume indicates the smudged Hebrew letter on his back.

“To beeee, or Maccabe!” Holster cackles.

“This is so pure,” Ransom says. “The nightlight of the Jewish people.”

“Stu is a disaster,” Holster says as Stu’s “Menorah” explodes.

“That was cute AF, Holtzy,” Ransom says when the episode ends.

“Bro, I know.”

“We still gotta do homework though.”

“UGH.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ You can watch the Rugrats Hanukkah special here lol ](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3aavso)
> 
> That's a wrap ! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, your feedback is a sweet, sweet elixir

**Author's Note:**

> 1 kudos = 1 latke  
> 1 comment = 1 sufganiyah
> 
> come find me on tumblr as ricekrispyjoints, if you're into that kind of thing


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